Out For A Walk
by Aliit Vodeson
Summary: When Sherlock's mind begins to leave him, when the very organ he has built his life upon begins to destroy him, he and John are faced with impossible choices. And as the detective sees only way one to proceed, will John and Mycroft let him? One-shot


**_So my 30 fanfict challenge is that every day I have to write a piece from John's perspective, based off a prompt of three random words (I have a bunch of index cards with words on them that I'm using for this). Today's words? Cancer, walk, nap_**

"Doctor Richards will see you now." The nurse holds out the door for us as Sherlock gets up. I'm slower more reluctant to hear the latest results. I don't want to hear them. I dread every minute we spend in this office, because it's one last minute he has. We don't know how long he has and this is just wasting that little bit of time.

"Come on John." He tugs my arm when I don't move fast enough for his liking. The nurse, Jennie, I remember, smiles at me as we go past her. She's new, but not so new that she doesn't know the awkwardness of Sherlock's and my relationship.

Doctor Richards in his wood paneled office, dressed in the same sort of clothes Mycroft wears. That shouldn't surprise, both because it's the same thing he's wore the two dozen times we've come and also because Richards was chosen by Mycroft. It fits that they'd have the same style. "Hello Sherlock, John."

Sherlock drops into the leather chair with his usual grunt of hello. I shake Richards hand before taking the seat next to Sherlock. "It's good to see you," I say, though we all know that it's not.

The meeting goes on from there. The chemotherapy has taken the edge off the tumor, but it's not working as well as they'd hoped. Another surgery may be possible, but we shouldn't put too much hope in that. Sherlock's already had three operations, and none of them have proved very effective. The tumor's too deep, too well situated in his brain.

Sherlock stares out the cab window as we ride back to the flat in silence. I can't read his expression. I text Mycroft the latest news, basically that there is none, though he probably already knows. I wouldn't be surprised if he had agents working inside the hospital, just to keep tabs on Sherlock's medical files.

"John?"

It's the first time he's spoken since we left for the appointment.

"Yes?" I set down the mug of tea in front of him. He doesn't look at it. He just stares across the room to the kitchen, with that blank glassy stare that I know means he's not actually seeing anything. "What is it?"

"I think I figured out the Dougall case."

I grab my pen and notepad from my trouser pocket. He's kept up the work with his cases throughout the various treatments but it's been hard. The tumor's cut down on his cognitive ability. He can't function like he used to. The brilliant insights that used to come so naturally to him are now simple sparks of brilliance that I scramble to catch and write down before they disappear. It was Lestrade's idea that I write down every idea that he has, to keep a running log of his solutions. "Go."

****He's already rattling off the details. The case is relativity straightforward, to Sherlock at least. Only once he's reached the end and the all of his conclusions are down in my military shorthand do I see the same picture. His thoughts are even harder to follow than they used to be. The tumor's hurting him, in the ways that I can only see. He can't focus on the case, even when his mind is lucid. It's worse than when he took the drugs. When he was on drugs, back before all this started, before we knew that he was dieing, before my life turned into visits to specialists and surgeries that even I don't understand. He took the drugs before the tumor was discovered. At first glance, this seems the same. But it's not. The drugs slowed his mind down. Now he's just slow and even when he can think, his thoughts are interrupted by wild musings.

"Anything else?" I look at him. His wig has sipped down and over on his forehead. I reach over and tug it back into place without thinking. He doesn't acknowledge the movement, but then, he never does. I think he's afraid that thanking me for straightening his wig means that he has to face the fact that he needs a wig. I'm the one who had it made in the first place. I couldn't bear to see him without the black curls that so dominate my memories of him.

"I need to speak to Mycroft." Already the light is going from his eyes. The spell of genius is gone.

"Of course. Shall I send the case notes to Lestrade?"

He looks at me, puzzled. "What case notes?"

He's forgotten. "The Dougall case."

"I haven't solved that yet."

I hand him the notepad. "You just did."

"Oh." He stares at my scrawled handwriting for what seems like hours. He hands it back to me. I gulp when I see how his hand is shaking. I'm a doctor. I know the signs, even if I wasn't painfully familiar with the medical reports. Shaking is never good. "I'll take your word for it John."

And that's it. He sleeps while call Mycroft, make diner, and write an email to Lestrade to close the Dougall case. Mycroft arrives before Sherlock wakes up. I smile at him as he looks down at his little brother. Since we found out about the tumor, I've seen a new side of Mycroft that I never imagined he had.

"How is he?"

Mycroft keeps his voice quiet, and I follow his example. "No better, no better. He had another spell today. That's when he asked for you, so he might not remember." I feel another bit of myself slip away. A spell now means something so much worse than it did when this all started. It used to be that a spell meant he'd forgotten something or lost hold on his thoughts. Now, it's the opposites. His spells are the moments that keep me sane. The old Sherlock slips through.

"Of course." Mycroft sits in my chair. "I'll wait for him to wake up."

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Biscuit? Mrs. Hudson made some cake." I know I'm hovering, but it's Sherlock and I'm not leaving him.

"I just had dinner, but thank you John." He looks back to Sherlock. "I'm sure you'll forgive me."

"Not a problem." I drag one of the kitchen chairs out, setting it next to Sherlock.

We sit there in silence, one asleep and two waiting. The clock counted the minutes. I had nothing else to be doing, even if I wanted to. I'd quit the surgery two months back, so I could look after Sherlock full time. Sarah understood and said that I was welcome back whenever I was able to, whenever this was over. Mycroft seemed to be in no hurry.

The clock in Mrs. Hudson's flat had just chimed eight, I'd disabled the chimes on our because it bothers Sherlock, when he sat up with a start. "John? John!"

I'm already reaching for his hand. It's the same routine every time. "I'm here Sherlock. I'm here."

His fingernails dig into my skin as he falls back into the chair. His breathing is shallow, fast and loud. "Oh. Oh."

"Mycroft's here."

Sherlock's looking at his brother, so surely he knows that we have a vistor, but I don't know if he can remember that this is his brother and not just another visiting client.

"Hello Sherlock. It's been a while."

"As usual. Have you started on that diet yet?"

Mycroft gives this that stiff smile that seems so much more forced than it did in the times before the cancer. "Why don't you tell me?"

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"You asked me to come here."

"I did?" Sherlock looks between Mycroft and me. "I don't remember doing that."

He doesn't remember so much now, even the stuff that he always remembered earlier. Forgetting things the rest of us considered important, that was the usual for him, but this is different. "You said you need to speak to Mycroft," I remind him gently, patting his arm with my free hand.

Mycroft and I don't speak while Sherlock thinks this over. I watch his eyes. They're the biggest clue to what he's thinking, now that he can't always tell us himself. They fix on Mycroft. "Right. Of course. I remember now. John, if you would please leave. I need to speak to my brother in private."

I stand. "Um, Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"I'll be in my room if you need me."

"Of course John."

I went to the door, then turned around to look at him again. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He seemed almost amused and my concern.

"Try not to do anything stupid."

Mycroft laughed, though the smile had left Sherlock's eyes. "Of course not John. That's your department."

I heard Sherlock's muffled voice coming up through the floor as I settled down for a nap. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but Mycroft sounded almost angry. I closed my eyes and drifted off, letting sleep take me.

I jerked awake as Mycroft's voice boomed out at me. "No! Absolutly not! I won't let you!"

"Mycroft, please." Sherlock sounded like he was almost pleading with Mycroft. I slide off the bed and put my ear to the floor, trying to hear better. "It's for the best."

"Best for John or best for you?"

"For both of us Mycroft. For both of us."

There was a long pause in which I considered going back downstairs. "Are you sure about this Sherlock? You know how John will take it."

"I can't keep living like this Mycroft. I can't do this, feel my ability slip away, watch John write down everything I say in case it turns out to be important, because I can't tell him if it is or even remember what I told him two hours later!"

"Alright. If you're sure."

"I am. And thank you Myrcoft."

I sat up when they stopped talking this time. What in the world did he mean, can't keep living like this. What did Sherlock want to do that would be the best for both of us?

"Sherlock?" I called as I walked down the stairs to the main flat. "You done talking?"

Mycroft was still sitting in the same chair, but there was no sign of Sherlock. "He went for a walk."

"A walk?" I looked around the flat, hearing the disbelief in my own voice.

"Yes." Mycroft's voice was low, resigned. "He said he needed to clear his head."

"Clear his-" I ran out the door. No, no, no. He could not do this to me. He could not do this to me. My feet took the stairs two, and then three, at a time. The front door of the flat was propped open and I practically flew through it.

A small crowd had already gathered. Cars were stopped, pedestrians stared, and a tall man with curly black wig askew lay in a bloody puddle in the street. His arms were outstretched from his side, the smooth bald skin of his head glinting in the sun. His back was twisted, as if some great force had pushed into it and broken it forever.

I felt my knees slam into the cement. No. No. He could not do this to me. Could not do it to Mrs. Hudson. To Molly. To Lestrade. To all of us who were praying for a miracle to be found. He could not do this.

A hand closed around my shoulder. Mycroft's. "I'm sorry John. But it's what he wanted." And I heard the ghost of Sherlock's voice in Myroft's as he repeated his brother's words.

"It's for the best."


End file.
